On
a desolate night in the Dakota
territories, fate deposits a mysterious
drifter at the door of a lonely
spinster. It was supposed to be
just one passionate night ...
instead, it became the love of
a lifetime.

Harper
Monogram · isbn:
0-06-108475-1

Kieran
had a tiny part
in Home
Fires.
He appeared
in only two
scenes, but
he'd lost so
much that I
felt guilty
for putting
him through
it and I had
to put it to
rights. This
was a wonderful
book to write.
It features
two older characters
(older for the
late 19th century,
at least) and
is, at its heart,
a story about
people who start
out backwards.
What happens
the morning
after? How do
you put together
a relationship
after that precipitous
intimacy, when
you know both
too much and
far too little
about each other?
It was a fascinating
journey to try
to write well.

Plus
I don't feel
guilty about
Kieran anymore.
He'd say that
Maggie was
well worth
it.

One
Lonely Night
is currently
out-of-print,
but has been
sighted in many
used bookstores.
Know of any
good used bookstores? Email
me about
them. I will
post their link
on my order page.

"Redemption,
Dakota Territories."
Kieran McDermott
murmured the
name to himself,
testing it out.
It seemed a
strange place
to find a murderer,
a town called
Redemption.
He'd look there
all the same,
for the instincts
honed over two
decades of hunting
urged him on.

The
small rented
room on the
outskirts of
Chicago was
dim, sparsely
furnished with
battered furniture
and ragged curtains.
Outside, a train
rumbled past,
clouding the
air with smoke
and harsh sound.

Kieran
ignored it.
He occupied
the cheap room
not because
he couldn't
afford better,
but because
it simply didn't
matter to him
at all. He'd
learned to disregard
such trivialities
years ago.

A
map spread out
on the lopsided
pine table in
front of him.
Pins stabbed
through the
thin paper,
indicating crime
sites, their
scattered arrangement
holding no pattern
that he could
discern.

If
there was one
thing that marked
his quarry,
that was it.
The man had
no pattern,
no favorite
methods at all.
He was as likely
to invest months
posing as a
colleague or
employee, gaining
access to vast
company funds
before quietly
absconding with
them, as he
was to recruit
a gang and stage
a bold, bloody
daytime holdup
of the largest
bank in Milwaukee.
Years of crimes,
all over the
Middle West,
without coming
close to being
captured. Crimes
that wouldn't
even be linked
together, if
it weren't for
his single,
signature habit
-- he sent notes
thanking his
victims.

So
he had pride,
Kieran thought,
pride and arrogance
enough that
he couldn't
stand his successes
going completely
unnoticed. There'd
be no reason
to send the
notes -- indeed,
much safer not
to -- other
than to claim
his work.

It
wasn't the sort
of job that
Kieran would
normally accept.
The wealthy
businessmen
and profitable
enterprises
that had been
robbed could
well afford
it. They could
command dozens
of law officers
to catch the
Uncatchable
Man -- as the
newspaper writers
had recently
dubbed him --
and hire detectives
of their own,
as well.

But
then there'd
been a young
girl drawn in,
a lovely fifteen-year-old
girl -- sixteen
now, Kieran
reminded himself.
And a broken
and distraught
father had begged
him to help,
and the hunt
had begun.

Kieran
mentally sifted
through the
bits of evidence
he'd collected,
a witness here,
a train record
there. The hotel
chambermaid
who'd taken
note of the
strangeness
of the young
girl being found
in her "father's" bed
one morning.
The experienced
Minneapolis
detective who'd
followed a trail
all the way
across Minnesota
before being
found, stabbed
to death, in
the Big Sioux
River.

For
nine months
Kieran had followed
the trail. Longer
than he'd chased
anyone, except
the first.

That
one had taken
him ten years.

Despite
his work, the
trail would
still seem pitifully
thin to anyone
else. It didn't
matter to Kieran;
he felt it,
the razor-sharp
focus of his
attention, his
senses, and
the rising churn
in his blood
that always
told him when
he was narrowing
in on his prey.

He
reached forward
and placed his
finger on the
tiny dot on
the map, just
east of where
the Missouri
River snaked
its way through
the southern
half of the
Dakota Territories. "Yes,"
he whispered.

It
would be Redemption.

Margaret
Thayer lit the
tiny stub of
candle -- saved
from last year
for just this
purpose -- that
was carefully
pushed into
the exact center
of her birthday
cake. The cake
was small, thinly
frosted in white
icing, an indulgence
she'd earned
by prudently
drinking her
coffee unsweetened
for the previous
two weeks.

Her
thirty-fifth
birthday. And
she was entirely
alone, just
as she had been
for the past
three.

Outside,
the wind raged
and battered
her small house.
An unusually
vicious late-April
snowstorm drove
needle pricks
of snow through
the air with
a whistle like
bullets. After
a week of mild
temperatures
and clear days,
the sudden storm
was a shock,
as if mocking
anyone foolish
enough to believe
that spring
had come to
Dakota. Though
Margaret had
stuffed every
crack she could
find with rags,
the wind still
forced its way
in, fluttering
the small candle
flame.

Thirty-five
years old.
When so many
of those years
had seemed to
pass so slowly,
how in the world
had she gotten
here so fast?
At church services,
just last Sunday,
Martha Ann Perkins
-- who Margaret
knew full well
was three months
younger than
she was -- had
confided she
was soon to
become a grandmother.
A grandmother!

Margaret's
goddaughter
Carrie, whom
she still thought
of as a tender,
tow-headed six-year-old,
had married,
known a man,
conceived a
child. And here
it had been
almost twenty
years since
Margaret herself
had been so
much as kissed.
Even then, only
once, a quick
stolen mashing
of lips that
was so long
ago she could
no longer conjure
up even the
slightest memory
of the feeling.

A
loud thud made
her jump, her
heart race.
Was she now
to become a
foolish, fearful
woman, too,
who jumped at
every stray
sound? For surely
it was nothing;
likely the wind
had just ripped
a loose board
from the shed
and flung it
against the
house.

The
candle's flame
wobbled, diminished,
threatening
to extinguish
itself before
she even had
a chance to
make a wish.
Best to be quick
about it.

Margaret
had long ago
given up wishing
for things like
love or fortune
or even happiness.
Now, her dreams
were more modest.

Please,
I just want
something
to happen.

And,
with a quick
huff of breath,
she snuffed
the meager fire.

This
time there was
no mistaking
the sound for
a wind-borne
object. The
thudding was
steady and hard,
a heavy fist
against her
door.

For
a brief, ridiculous
instant, she
thought that
perhaps someone
had remembered
her birthday
after all. But
none of her
acquaintances
would come out
in this weather;
it would be
sheer stupidity.
The stupid did
not survive
long in the
territories.

What,
then? The banging
grew slower,
weaker. For
a moment she
considered ignoring
it. Certainly
that would be
the wisest course;
a woman living
alone two miles
from town couldn't
be too careful.
And everyone
in the area
had more sense
than to go out
in weather like
this. Still,
what if there
was an emergency,
a desperate
need for her
assistance?

Well,
she could hardly
let whoever
was out there
die on her doorstep.
Surely there
was not that
much danger.
Far more likely
that someone
had merely been
lost in the
storm than they'd
deliberately
gone out in
it to find her
and do her harm.
Still, she checked
the loading
of her shotgun
and propped
it up against
the wall within
easy reach before
she opened the
door.

Cold
and snow blasted
her, stinging
her face. A
tall figure
swayed in the
doorway, long
dark coat flapping
stiffly in the
wind. Not a
slice of skin
showed between
the battered,
ice-coated felt
hat pulled low
and the turned-up
collar hunched
high around
the ears.

"C
... cold. Din' spect
..."
The words were
slurred. He
moved forward
a shuffling
step. "Storm,"
he said, and
toppled over.

"Oh
no, don't do
that!" He
pitched straight
into her arms,
a heavy, frigid
weight. She
valiantly struggled
to keep them
both upright,
but she was
not a large
woman and she
slowly sank
beneath the
burden.

Oh,
dear, she thought,
as the hard
plane of the
floor painfully
met her hip.
Perhaps I should
have been a
bit more specific
with my wish.

Something good.

Had
he simply died
right on top
of her, just
like that? He
didn't move,
and his weight
made breathing
hard. She squirmed,
easing herself
from beneath
him until he
rolled to one
side with a
thump. She was
free.

Margaret
scrambled to
the door and
leaned against
it, forcing
it shut against
the wind. She
dropped to her
knees beside
the still form,
tugged off the
hat, and turned
down the stiff
fabric of the
coat's collar.

She'd
never seen this
man before.
For surely if
she had, this
face she would
have remembered.
Cleanly sculpted
features, not
marred a whit
by the lines
bracketing his
mouth and eyes.
A fall of heavy
dark hair, thickly
iced with silver.
Skin pale as
the blowing
snow outside,
a stark contrast
with the dark
stubble of a
few day's beard.

Strange
to think of
a man as beautiful,
but there was
no other word
for this one.

And
he was still
alive.

Beneath
her fingertips,
where she'd
placed them
against the
curve of his
neck, she could
barely detect
his pulse. Faint,
and far too
slow, but there
just the same.

"Can
you hear me?" When
she got no response,
she grabbed
his shoulders
and shook hard,
nearly shouting
this time. "Wake
up! We've got
to get you up."

The
hard, driving
bits of snow
had scored his
eyelids with
tiny cuts, leaving
them swollen
and red. When
he blinked his
eyes open, she
found the purest
blue she'd ever
seen.

"Sorry," he
mumbled "Din'
know ... I ..."

"Not
now. We've got
to get you warm,
and the floor's
too cold. I
can't get you
up myself, and
you have to
help me. Do
you understand?"

"Unnerstan'." He
didn't move.

She
lifted his limp
arm and looped
it around her
shoulders, locking
her own arms
around his chest. "Come
on," she
urged him. "Get
up!"

He
moaned -- not
a pained sound,
she judged,
but one of exhaustion
and protest.
How long had
he been caught
in the storm?

He
tried; she had
to give him
that. But it
seemed as if
his limbs weren't
entirely under
his command,
and she had
to pull and
tug and shout,
taking as much
of his weight
as she could,
dragging him
to his feet.

They
stumbled toward
the bed together,
once bumping
hard against
the wall --
of course she was
the one nearest
the wall, and
took the brunt
of it -- and
twice nearly
pitched to the
floor. Finally,
they made it,
and, relieved,
she simply released
her hold and
let him tumble
onto the bed.
It creaked and
shuddered beneath
him, and for
a moment she
regretted dropping
him like that,
concerned the
old frame would
break beneath
him.

His
face pressed
against the
straw mattress,
he mumbled something
she couldn't
hear. Perhaps
he couldn't
breath, with
his nose buried
in the bed like
that. She climbed
up beside him
and crouched
down, working
her hands beneath
him, positioning
her shoulder
at his side,
and gave a heave.
He flopped over.

Legs
next. She scrambled
off and grabbed
his feet, dragging
them up on the
bed so he finally
lay full upon
it. Despite
the biting air
that rushed
into the room
while the door
had been open,
sweat dampened
her forehead
and back by
the time she
finished. Who
would have thought
a man would
be so dad-blamed
heavy?

Unfortunately,
the exertion
hadn't warmed
him at all.
He shivered
so hard the
bed quaked,
his teeth clicking
together.

First,
she decided,
she had to get
him out of those
cold, wet clothes.

His
boots had probably
once been expensive.
The leather
was very fine,
the stitching
even and small.
But they'd had
hard use, the
heels worn down,
the leather
scarred and
scratched. They
were easily
dispensed with;
she just grabbed
and yanked.

Machine-made
socks, she thought
in disgust,
thin, knitted
things that
probably wouldn't
keep a toe warm
in August. Had
none of the
women in his
life enough
sense or care
to knit him
some good sturdy
ones? She stripped
them off, too,
throwing them
in the direction
of the boots.
The flesh beneath
was white and
cold, hard as
marble. His
feet needed
tending, but
it would have
to wait.

Best
to worry about
saving his life
before she set
herself to saving
his feet.

He
wore a duster
of heavy gray
glazed cotton
that reached
his ankles.
It didn't matter
how long it
was, though.
Dakota required
skins, and anyone
with half a
brain knew it.

Her
fingers fumbled
on the buttons
of his plain
white shirt.
Stop that! she
scolded herself.
This was no
time for maidenly
nerves. Surely
she should have
left such useless
conceits behind
years ago.

She
moved faster,
attempting nurse-like
efficiency.
But she couldn't
keep her gaze
from sometimes
brushing the
skin she bared,
any more than
she could pretend
that she didn't
feel a bit of
... curiosity.
It was foolish,
but she was
a thirty-five-year-old
spinster who'd
never seen a
bare-chested
man -- not even
her father.
And she'd never
expected the
fascination
of it, the way
that skin --
just plain human
skin -- could
seem so much
more male than
hers.

The
wet heaviness
of his denim
pants made the
metal buttons
stubborn. Margaret
found it hard
to force them
through their
holes and even
harder to ignore
where her fingers
worked and pressed.
The heat in
her cheeks shamed
her, for there
was nothing
at all prurient
here. It was
only about saving
a man's life.

Still,
she tried looking
away, focusing
on a strip of
wallboard that
showed through
the plaster
instead of the
sight of her
work-roughened
hands against
a man's bare
belly and denim-covered
crotch. But
trying to unfasten
his pants without
sight only made
her flounder
all the more.
She squared
her shoulders
and concentrated
on her task,
finally freeing
the last button.
She tugged the
denims from
his hips and
his long --
very long --
legs, eyeing
the drawers
that twisted
low around his
hips, and decided
that would have
to be enough.
They were still
fairly dry,
and she'd done
as much as she
could bring
herself to.

He
lay, still trembling
with the cold,
sprawled on
her old sheets,
his hair dark
and mussed against
the creamy white
of her pillow.
She piled blankets
over him until
she feared the
weight would
hinder his breathing,
and stacked
several more
next to the
stove to warm.

What
next? His cheeks,
his fingers,
his feet; all
showed signs
of frostbite,
but she thought
she should try
to get something
warming in him
first. She bit
hard on her
lip, wishing
there was someone
to tell her
if she was doing
the right thing.
The man -- the
stranger --
could easily
lose his fingers
if she chose
wrong. She wasn't
accustomed to
responsibility,
to having others
dependent upon
her decisions.

Hot
water from her
supper still
simmered in
a pot on the
stove. She grabbed
a mug, dropped
in a pinch of
cayenne and
ginger, and
scooped in a
healthy dollop
of tinned milk.
She debated
only a moment,
then added a
heaping spoonful
of sugar, sighing
as she consigned
herself to a
few more days
of black coffee.
He needed it
more than she
did.

Steam
rose as she
poured hot water
into the mug.
It would probably
have been better
if she'd had
some whiskey
to add, but
she never kept
spirits around.
This would have
to do.

Stirring,
blowing ripples
across the surface
of the mixture
so it wouldn't
burn him, she
hurried across
the room, surprised,
once again,
by the sight
of a man in
her bed. She
thought it rather
sad that it
was such a shock
to her, that
she couldn't
seem to prepare
herself for
the look of
him there.

She'd
assumed he was
asleep, but
at her urging
he opened his
eyes and struggled
up. She sat
next to him,
hip hard against
his side, and
slipped her
arm behind him
for support.

"Here,
drink this," she
said, nudging
his lips with
the rim of the
mug. "It
will warm you."

He
shook his head,
his hair, surprisingly
soft, brushing
against her
cheek. Scent
filled her nostrils,
cold and soap
and something
so alien and
surprising in
her house that
it took her
a moment to
identify it
-- the smell
of a man.

"My
... horse." His
speech, though
still slow and
careful, as
if the words
came hard, was
more coherent
than before.
That was good. "Outside.
Take ... care
of him?"

Margaret
sighed. Of course
he had a horse;
how else would
he have gotten
here? She didn't
relish the thought
of going out
in the bitter
cold, and now
she had little
choice. "I'll
take care of
him soon. Let's
worry about
you first."

He
turned his head
to face her.
His chin bumped
the mug, sloshing
a little over
her hand. He
frowned, blue
eyes holding
her gaze, demanding.

"Now."

"Soon." She
brought the
cup toward his
mouth. "Drink
this, and then
we'll see about
the parts you
froze, and then
I'll take care
of your horse.
Okay?"

He
pressed his
lips together,
set his jaw,
making it clear
she wasn't getting
any of her concoction
down his throat
without his
cooperation.

"Now."

"For
heaven's sake." Weren't
people supposed
to be grateful
to the ones
who saved their
lives? Obligated
to do whatever
they asked without
protest?

"All
right, then.
You drink this
first, though,
and then I'll
go out and look
for your horse."

He
nodded and bent
his head to
the cup. He
drank deeply,
quickly, his
shoulder pressing
hard against
her breast.
The cup drained,
he looked at
her, his mouth
gleaming moist,
and repeated:
"Now."

"Fine." Obstinate
man. She settled
him in, blankets
tucked around
his stubborn
chin, and dressed
for going out
in the storm.

She
hated to leave
him alone. His
frozen flesh
wouldn't thaw
properly without
attention, and
she wasn't sure
how much time
they had. She
thought he was
in no immediate
danger, but
what did she
know of it?
And she felt
another reluctance,
an odd, foolish
one, to leave
her house when
he was there.
An impatience
to stay inside
-- with him
-- when, all
winter long,
she'd longed
to leave and
had snatched
any excuse to
get out of that
confining space.

A
knotted rope
led from her
front door to
the shed that
housed her own
animals. Thank
goodness she
hadn't taken
it down in last
week's good
weather.

Snow
churned the
air. Wind caught
the bits --
couldn't really
call them flakes,
when they were
so small and
hard -- before
they hit the
ground, whipped
them in a straight
line across
the empty spaces.
Not all that
much snow, she
judged, but
enough to blot
out any vision
when it flew
like that. And
the cold was
bitter, making
her eyebrows
and her teeth
hurt.

She'd
hoped the horse
had stayed where
it had been
left, near the
door. Unfortunately,
as she expected,
it wasn't there.
Likely it had
wandered out
into the endless
white, where
it would be
found only after
the weather
warmed and the
snow melted.

But
she had promised
him, and so
she worked her
way along the
rope, shouting
for the animal,
even though
she knew the
wind's scream
would blot out
her voice almost
completely.

She'd
nearly reached
the shed, and
the end of her
determination,
when she found
him. The horse
stood still,
waiting, at
the front door
of the shed,
as if he fully
expected her
to come and
let him in.

"Well,
there," she
said softly.
"Find it,
did you?"

She
led him inside
and quickly
unsaddled him,
checking her
own elderly
mare and cow
before giving
them all handfuls
of straw. Water
was solid in
the tin bucket,
but they'd drink
little while
the storm raged,
anyway. Impatiently
she turned for
the door, pausing
at the last
moment to grab
the bag she'd
found lashed
to the stranger's
saddle.

The
warmth of her
small house
welcomed her
back inside,
and she rushed
toward the bed,
tugging off
her mittens
and coat as
she went, carelessly
tossing them
over a nearby
chair. No one
in Redemption
would have believed
it, she thought,
that Margaret
Thayer was scurrying
to get to a
man in her bed.

He'd
stopped shuddering,
she saw immediately,
lying still
and large against
her pillows.
She lightly
brushed his
forehead and
he opened his
eyes.

"Is
--"

"Your
horse is fine," she
promised him,
and bent to
her work.

Too
much to do;
she needed more
hands. His feet
had seemed in
the worst shape,
she decided,
and tugged the
quilt from the
mattress and
peeled it back.

To
her shame, her
stomach gave
a silly little
lurch. What
was so intimate
about a bare
foot that would
make her react
like that? She
tried to recall
the last time
she'd seen one.
This one seemed
so much larger
than hers, with
its pale skin
and little bit
of wiry black
hair. Undeniably
male.

Get
on with it,
Margaret.
You have no
time to stare
at the poor
man's feet.

She
lifted his knees,
placed his feet
in a pan of
alum water,
and let them
soak while she
turned her attention
to the other
parts of him
that had been
marked by the
cold.

To
prevent as much
damage as possible,
the flesh needed
to be warmed
slowly, carefully.
She probably
shouldn't have
left his hands
and feet under
the blankets
for so long
as it was. Margaret
fetched a bucket
of snow, sat
on the edge
of the bed,
spread a towel
across her lap,
and took his
hands in her
own.

She
rubbed them
with the snow,
her own fingers
aching with
the cold. She
glanced up once,
checking to
see if the treatment
pained him,
and found him
watching her.
Her hands fell
still.

His
steady gaze
was assessing,
unwavering,
as if taking
in everything
about her while
giving nothing
of himself away.
Unused to such
close regard,
she quickly
looked back
down and returned
to her task.

Muffling
silence lay
heavy between
them. She'd
never had the
taste or the
talent for useless
chatter. She
had questions,
certainly, many
of them, but
now wasn't the
time for them.
Fierce exposure
to cold tended
to blur the
mind temporarily,
and it would
be a few hours
before he'd
think clearly
again. He needed
rest.

But
she was constantly,
acutely conscious
of him watching
her as she worked.
She focused
instead on his
injuries, alternating
between his
hands and his
cheeks, rubbing
first with snow,
then flannel,
then simply
her own hands.

Once
her discomfort
faded, she found
herself unwillingly
fascinated.
By the feel
of frozen fingers
taking on her
warmth, by watching
white skin flushing
pink and then
red. By seeing
his flesh come
to life beneath
her palms, and
an answering
heat sparked
in her.

She
was working
witch hazel
into his fingers
when she dared
to look up at
him again. "I
know it hurts,"
she said. "But
that's good.
It means it's
thawing out."

"Don'
matter," he
said, but she
thought she
detected pain
lurking deep
in his eyes.

"You
should rest," she
told him.

In
answer, he turned
his wrist, curling
his fingers
until he cradled
her hand in
his own. Good
strong fingers,
ones she'd likely
saved. Hoped
she'd saved,
for the thought
of him losing
them was more
than she could
bear.

"Thank
you," he
said softly,
and drifted
off to sleep,
holding her
hand as he would
a lover's.